For Love or Money
by alwaysflying
Summary: Understandably, Maureen does not take too well to the discovery that her exlover is marrying a spoiled rich girl.


"Jesus Christ, Benny."

Maureen claps a hand to her heart, her eyes wild and huge. "You can't just say things like that to people. You might give me a heart attack. Or, you know. Something else."

Benny squirms in his chair uncomfortably. Picking at the protruding cotton, he deadpans, "I wasn't kidding, Maureen."

She flays her arms out wildly. "Benny! Joke's over! Enough is enough!" When she is met with only a careful aversion of her eyes, Maureen's eyes enlarge further. "Jesus," she hisses. "You weren't kidding, were you?" She springs to her feet, overcome by such a blend of emotions that she could not possibly begin to name them all.

"Actually," says Benny in a dry monotone, "no."

"Jesus Christ," Maureen hisses. "Jesus motherfucking Christ!"

Benny purses his lips. "Do you say that around Mark?" he asks, and he is being intentionally nasty, but it isn't the first time. Besides, Maureen is behaving like an infant. He may as well retaliate.

Sharp as always, Maureen retorts, "Anti-semitism will get you nowhere, Benjamin."

"Neither," snaps Benny, "will sleeping with someone who's engaged. So put a fucking shirt on, will you?"

Maureen looks down and is surprised to see that she is, indeed, naked from the waist up. "I didn't notice," she tells Benny in a low whine as she pulls a sweatshirt on over her otherwise nude upper body. "Anyways, look. You can't marry that bitch."

If Maureen had been anyone else – Roger, Collins, or even Mark – her comment would be received with a deadly stare and several weeks of the silent treatment. However, since Maureen is, in fact, Maureen, all she is met with is a deep exhalation on Benny's part. "Come on, Maureen," he says irritably. "Act your age."

"No!" she snaps. "I know what I'm talking about, Benny. You can't marry for money."

Having no idea of the horrific memories of childhood running through Maureen's head, Benny rolls his eyes. "If you still have your little _crush _on me, Maureen…" he warns, trying to sound as though it hadn't been entirely returned, as though he hadn't felt the same way.

Maureen snorts. "A crush? Please, Benny. Don't give yourself that much credit. Is it _my _fault we were horny and alone?"

"We wouldn't've been for long," Benny points out. Maureen waves her hand dismissively.

"Irrelevant," she says briskly. "The matter at hand is your marrying that _whore_. Gray. Whatever."

Benny gapes. "She's not a _whore_!"

"No," Maureen agrees. "She's not. She's completely and utterly prudish. She'll have sex, but only if she's married. She'll pop out a few kids, stay under Daddy's wing, maybe cook a few nice meals for you and rub your feet, but she's definitely not a _whore_. I mean, how could she be, being the arrested-development Daddy's princess that she is?"

Benny avoids her eyes. "She's not," he protests. "She's not."

"Yeah?" Maureen jeers. "Why are you marrying her, then, Mr. Perfect?"

Her companion's answer is indecipherable. "One more time?" Maureen asks sweetly, her eyes open wide like she actually cares.

"You _know _why I'm marrying her," Benny mutters.

Maureen nods knowingly, smugly. "So it _is _for money."

"Yes!" Benny exclaims. "Is that such a crime?"

"It's selling out," Maureen tells him. Her eyes are wide and unforgiving, sizing Benny up, serious and contemplative.

Benny puffs air out around an imaginary cigarette. "How is it _selling out_, Maureen?" he asks, humoring her.

"You're giving up your morals, artistic ethics, for money," she replies. "Love is _sacred _to an artist, Benny, come on, don't just throw it away for some trashy bitch who'll cook you dinner and have your children. That's what middle-class suburban assholes do. I thought you were _different_." She sounds, bizarrely, not at all cliché or rehearsed. For once in her life, Maureen Johnson sounds geniune, about as far from a soap opera character as is possible.

Benny shakes his head. "Maybe I'm not."

And he can't admit to himself how much he hates that thought.

"I think you are," Maureen tells him seriously. "I really, really do. I think you have something nobody else does – nobody who isn't an artist, that is. You're different. You have to plan your life accordingly."

Benny's eyes take on the apperance of fire. "Maybe I don't want to be different."

"Don't you?"

He examines his fingernails, searching for perfection. He shrugs his shoulders backward in a gesture of utter bewilderment, not indecision. "I don't know," he says. "But this is too much for me, Mo, you have to get that – not every lifestyle is for everyone." He tries to sound as gentle as possible.

Maureen shakes her head. "This was _perfect _for you before she showed up."

She sounds bitter. Even Benny can tell.

"It just felt that way because I never knew anything better. Maureen! You remember. We were kids. We had air-conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter, a fireplace and hot chocolate and a loving, _normal _family."

Maureen shakes her head. "We're loving," she insists.

"But normal?"

"What's the point of normalcy if it isn't what you _want_?" she exclaims desperately.

Benny slowly releases a built-up sigh. "Maureen," he says, the balance of his life suddenly depending on careful articulation of his current thought, "I'm not you. I can't handle everything. And I want a normal life. I _want _to be normal."

"She's a _yuppie_," Maureen protests.

Benny has no response to that.

"See? You get it," Maureen declares proudly. "You _know _it's artistically unethical, don't you? Immoral." 

"No," he says. "She loves me, Maureen. You don't know… you've never seen the way she looks at me. It's the same way… the same way…" He was going to compare it to the way he and Maureen once looked at each other, but the words slip out of his mind like liquid butter. He can't say _that_. It wouldn't be fair, like wielding an opponent's own sword against him. "The same way my parents used to look at each other," he says at last. "Just so devoted, so in love. Able to do anything to guarantee the other's happiness."

Maureen sighs. That, she can understand, as much as she loaths the concept. "You don't love her, though."

"No." He looks around. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Maureen shrugs. "I don't know," she says. "What you're doing, Benny, you have to _get _it. You're surrendering any chance at love _ever again_. Love is immortal. It's something you can never get on. And it isn't something you _buy_."

"I'm not buying love," he protests. "I'm just…"

"Marrying for money," she scoffs. "Same thing."

"Then _why_?" she whispers.

Benny shrugs. "It'll make her happy," he says simply. "I owe her that much, don't I?"

"I guess," Maureen admits tentatively. "But…"

He lays a hand on his friend's shoulder, the shoulder of his former lover and one-time _best _friend. "Look, Mo. I don't want to… to sacrifice anything. We're still…"

"Still friends?" she snaps.

Benny closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, the door is sliding shut, the echo of Maureen's heels descending the stairs the only evidence that there was ever a shirtless young woman in his apartment.


End file.
